


r0ad-n0t-t4ken.wav

by isaac richard (isaacrichard)



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: 404 Not Found - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Computers, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Dreamscapes, Episode: s4e04 Page Not Found, Hacking, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Season/Series 04, computing lingo, im saving their dumbasses. someone has to, they're working on it. they really are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24915304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaacrichard/pseuds/isaac%20richard
Summary: (three roads diverged in a wood... and i was the one less traveled by.)Mr. Robot fixes everything.Because sometimes, the road out is the road back.
Relationships: Elliot Alderson/Mr. Robot/Tyrell Wellick, Elliot Alderson/Tyrell Wellick, Mr. Robot/Tyrell Wellick
Comments: 14
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> howdy folks! gonna be at least three chapters to this one, bookmark if that's your thing.  
> thanks for reading! i quite like this, and i hope yall do too :)
> 
> edit 7/2: what the fuck how did this end up being so long i hate them

Three roads diverged in a wood –

_And I was the one less traveled by._

_And that has made_

_All the difference_

That was the truth. Mr. Robot – fuck, he didn’t even have a real name. Mr. Robot was the name of the store Elliot's scumbag father owned, and it morphed, slowly, into his being.

His whole purpose was Elliot, and the others, and their safety. And, sometimes, Darlene, if she happened to be convenient for him. Protection - comfort - love - 

that's what "Mr. Robot" meant. Not a man. Not a person. 

An idea. A revolution. Something better than what was before.

Tyrell is singing.

_Yes, kiddo, I hear him. It’s annoying as all fucking hell._

I think it’s nice. It’s Christmas, y’know? Even if we’re gonna fucking die out here.

Tyrell is also crying, but nobody comments on that. The _crunch-crunch-crunch_ of packed, freezing snow under their feet is deafening – this is no light winter snowfall. This is blizzard conditions, and they could easily find themselves facing hypothermia if this went on much longer.

“We’re gonna have to turn back,” Robot says. Or maybe it’s Elliot. They both think it, and Tyrell hears it, by the way his head shoots up. The Swedish tune abruptly halts.

“No.”

“This is fucking stupid,” that’s Elliot for sure, loud and clear to Mr. Robot’s left. Shivering in his inadequate hoodie. Robot himself is better off, in his jackets and flannel and scarves, but, of course, that physically means nothing.

“We can make it,” Tyrell declares. He’s still crying, and it’s bizarre to witness. When Elliot cried, the world stopped. Everything had to be put on pause until he got his shit together and they could move on. But Tyrell –

He just keeps on trudging through it, doesn’t he?

_Yeah, he does. Poor bastard. You wonder why?_

I know why. He feels lesser, despite all his work to get to the top. His position isn’t real. His wife is dead. He hates himself. It’s not a fucking Rubik’s cube, man. It’s all right there – no decoding required.

He has nothing left to do _but_ trudge.

_No turning back. Like a shark._

Something like that.

“Elliot?” Tyrell’s stopped walking. He’s shivering, through his 6000-dollar suit.

He’s beautiful. He’s ethereal and unreal, like a Greek god – or whatever the Europeans worshipped back then –

_Goddess. He’s pretty._

He’s got that graceful kind of swagger that we just don’t – like he was just born with it, or they taught it in Swede school, or something.

“Yeah?” Robot’s reply to Tyrell is gruff.

An animal howls in the distance, low and hollow and terrifying. Elliot’s heart jumps in their chest, terror bitter in the back of their throat.

Terror is a cool feeling, though warmer than their frozen surroundings. It slices through the body with slick, razor-sharp precision, and fight or flight kicks into full gear. Elliot is beginning to panic.

Mr. Robot swallows, lights himself a cigarette in the moment of idle. Christ, he was freezing his balls off out here.

_Stupid Swede and his dumbfuck van…_

“Oh. I –“

Tyrell doesn’t know what to say.

_Can we have quiet in the fucking peanut gallery, please? It’s like trying to watch a movie and the fucker behind you has his cellphone out. Stop narrating, Jesus Christ, I beg of you._

“We have to go back,” Elliot says. Firm, though his voice shakes. “We’re gonna die out here. Either you swallow your fucking pride, or whatever – or you die.”

Tyrell blinks like Elliot’s grown two heads, and then collapses into sobs. It’s so sudden and unexpected that both Robot and Elliot take a simultaneous step backward, floored by the display.

“Fuck,” Elliot mutters, or maybe it’s Robot. Doesn’t matter – the sentiment stands.

But it’s Mr. Robot who gets it together first, Elliot still stumbling for – what, his words? His actions? His ability to comfort another human being?

“Tyrell,” Mr. Robot says, and something about the sharpness of the edge of his voice makes Tyrell snap his head up.

He’s a mess – cheeks pink with cold and tears, suit wrinkled. He’s wrecked, and suddenly, it was like none of his wealth mattered. All of his prestige had been stolen by the elements, and the shell of a man was left behind.

Mr. Robot is probably at fault for their erection.

“We have to go back,” he says. “Fuck the gas station lady, we’ll camp out behind the store. But we can’t stay out here, do you understand? Do you understand, Tyrell? We have to _turn around.”_

Tyrell sobs.

“Oh my fucking God,” Elliot mutters, and the body starts to move in the opposite direction.

Mr. Robot yanks hard on the brakes. “We can’t just fucking leave him.”

“Why the fuck not?” Elliot says in a colorless voice. “I’m cold. Let’s go.”

“Give me a minute,” Mr. Robot says, and then utters the word that always makes Elliot break. It hurts his pride, but circumstances are dire. “Please?”

“Fucking fine,” Elliot murmurs, turning away. He pulls his hoodie tighter around his ears. “God. Go.”

Three roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I was the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

I was never supposed to like anyone.

I mean that, seriously. No friends, no buddies, no nothing. My world is Elliot, and now fsociety. But it was purely Elliot for twenty years or more. That was the way it was supposed to stay.

But Tyrell is –

I don’t know. Desperate, maybe. Willing to fall to his knees and worship my empire. Take my gun in his mouth and have faith I wouldn’t pull the trigger, splatter pretty Swedish brains all over the arcade floor.

I could have. I really could have. But stars did not align, and here we are.

I’m the architect, and Tyrell reads me the blueprints. And together, we remake the world. Now that we’ve remade it – now that things are falling into place – am I just supposed to hang him out to dry?

Elliot doesn’t love him, but he could learn to.

Because if I do – that means he’s already halfway there. 

I could Bonnie and Clyde with this fucker, though. He’d do anything I say. He’d still die for me – for us, and for everything – even after all this time.

_That has made all the difference…_

“C’mon, Swedish fish. We have to go back,” Mr. Robot murmurs. “C’mon, stand up. You can do it. Hike up your big girl panties and let’s get a move on.”

Tyrell snivels. “I’m not worth saving,” he mutters, lowly. His hands are bright red from the bite of the snow.

He was going to die if he stayed out here much longer – _tick-tick-tick_ , went the clock.

“I can’t leave you here,” Mr. Robot mutters. “Don’t fucking make me say more than that. Let’s go.”

Tyrell blinks. _More than that?_

_More than… what?_

“I told you not to make me say it,” Mr. Robot hisses, which is a weird tone for him to take while hiking Tyrell up to his feet.

Tyrell goes, willingly. Slumped over Robot and shuffling up into a walk, fingers grasping Mr. Robot’s fingers, which are as cold – if not more – as his own. They breathe.

Elliot watches them from a distance, feeling his body maneuver Tyrell so he could stand on his own. They begin the hike back in silence.

“Why did you –“ Tyrell begins.

The animal howls, again. Just as cold, just as terrifying, renewing the adrenaline coursing through Elliot’s veins.

“Don’t fucking ask me anything until you buy me a coffee,” Mr. Robot grumbles, feeling every freezing flake of snow under Elliot’s thin sneakers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> body awake, mind asleep.

“Oh,” Elliot realizes, and it’s a relief to know his suspicions have been correct. Mr. Robot looks back from where he’s snuggled up with Tyrell – and winks.

It’s not malicious. Elliot’s supposed to be in on the joke.

_“This is a dream. I’m dreaming.”_

And he was.

There was just something about the Christmas season _(family)_ that made Elliot feel so vulnerable, and the way Tyrell looked at them – like he was a highly precious gem, or some sort of messiah to be revered –

It fucked Elliot up. He was willing to let Mr. Robot take the reigns if it meant he didn’t have to sort through it in the freezing cold.

And they both figured, yeah, that was fair.

Or perhaps it was just the cold itself, making Elliot sleepy.

Or how Mr. Robot, while still by Tyrell’s side, had wrapped one solid, friendly arm around Elliot’s shoulders the way Edward used to – because no, not all the memories make him — _them_ – want to drop to their knees and vomit.

Not all.

Or maybe it was just the way things were supposed to go on this Christmas night, where they both (all three) should be dead. The sleep/wake cycle has begun again.

Body awake, mind asleep.

And Elliot is n0 10nger 1n c0ntr01….

He’s asleep, dreaming a similar dream – he sees, but cannot touch. He’s asleep – trapped – but awake enough to watch, listen.

Mr. Robot feels him, burrowed inside like an animal seeking refuge.

A consciousness inside of consciousness, where it was safe – and protected, surrounded on all four sides. Like nesting dolls – Matryoshkas, in Russian.

One looks like one – but you open and look inside, and there is another.

More than one of me – is it still me?

The pieces make the whole, kiddo.

Elliot falls Silent. Final shutdown, for now. He’s safe, this way, but Robot is –

Alone. In their big, echoing head, where he usually only has to be background noise. The body shivers – it was like getting your wildest dream (control) and realizing it to be a nightmare (but... he’s gone.).

“It’s fucking freezing,” Robot notes, loud and inelegant. They’ve been walking for a while, and the lights of civilization are drawing closer by the second.

Thank God. Mr. Robot had thought they were dead meat for at least the last mile. His cigarettes were running low from the nervous puffing.

Christmas carols are playing off in the far distance, past the highway. The highway, which was at least five miles off, give or take. They never would have made it.

Perhaps it’s someone’s house or business, awash with holiday cheer, while the two _(three)_ of them struggled to make it to a gas station without freezing to death.

Whatever. Still made a better Christmas then the ones they spent with _Edward –_

“Merry Christmas,” Tyrell murmurs. He wipes away the last of the tears he’d still been allowing to fall, freely. His shit is a lot more together, after a crisp walk past Death. “ _God Jul_.”

“Fuck is that, Spanish?” Mr. Robot jokes, waiting for the anger to flash across Tyrell’s face. It doesn’t come.

And it’s all Mr. Robot, through and through. The lines have been drawn heavily tonight – and Robot is fully in control.

Elliot doesn’t know why – but he’s not around to ask, or to figure out Tyrell is to blame. They have to talk, and Elliot can’t be present.

So, Mr. Robot has him idling. Just for now. It’s all for his benefit, anyway, because – wasn’t it always?

Elliot – who must have been exhausted, anyway. Poor kid.

They continue their climb. Any second now, they’d be in the warmth. Elliot remains silent – asleep, deeply asleep.

“Finally,” Tyrell mutters, like this was where he wanted to be all along.

And now that he’s sure that the kid is tucked away, Mr. Robot loses his mind at Tyrell. Just a little – just while Elliot isn’t around to make him calm down.

He gets so angry, just revving up, that he coughs, and a key clatters to the pavement beneath his feet. When he spits, his mouth tastes of metal.

There’s a glitch, and Mr. Robot stumbles. Elliot is trying – failing – to come back online.

Elliot, asleep/awake _. On/off cycle is fucking up…_

“You Swedish piece of – “ is as far as Mr. Robot gets before Tyrell is pinning him to the back wall of the gas station, ready to fuck him – them – like this. Raw and freezing.

And Tyrell must expect a fight (please God, don’t tell me he’s a fighter), because when Robot moans into it, he loses his nerve and abruptly releases them, dropping Elliot’s body. Robot laughs, stumbling away.

_Couldn’t go through with it, could you?_

“Buy me that damn coffee first,” he mumbles, gratified when Tyrell’s face heats up. He’s mortified – and he should be. Consent is sexy, didn’t they teach that in Nordic schools?

“Here.” Robot lights a second cigarette, touching it with his own, holds it out to Tyrell when they’re close again. Huddled together for warmth – they have yet to enter the store itself, and be faced with the rabid, Big-Brother-loving cashier.

“Oh,” Tyrell murmurs. He’s begun to weep, again. “Oh, I don’t –“

“Take the fucking cigarette, kid,” Mr. Robot rumbles. “It’ll make you feel better. It’s America’s favorite legal drug, c’mon. Everybody loves nicotine!”

And that’s just ridiculous enough to make Tyrell take the cig, pluck it from Robot’s fingers like Robot knew he would. Joanna probably had made him quit, but a smoker smokes forever.

“I used to – before. Before the marriage,” Tyrell murmurs, practically inhaling the cigarette. He exhales shakily, his plume of smoke bright white in the freezing night. They have yet to go inside.

 _That’s a score for me_ , Robot thinks. Elliot wasn’t the only observant one.

“I bet you did cocaine, too,” Mr. Robot murmurs. There’s a gleam in his eyes – unmistakable and, certainly, dangerous.

Tyrell leans into it, curious. He has nothing to lose, anymore. Though this is not his Elliot; of that he is sure. But, if he were at all honest, he’d admit to taking any Elliot available – and this one was very conveniently within reach.

The animal hasn’t howled in an awfully long time. Perhaps they had outran it.

Elliot, a very different kind of animal, has yet to stir.

“And I bet you still smoke. Along with the coke,” Mr. Robot continues. “Between board meetings, and after you fuck the secretary. Just enough to get your fix. Not too much as to alert the wife – or whoever it is, these days.

You play the part of upkept businessman like it was made for you, but it’s still just that: a part. You’re acting, even after all this time. And I know what’s real and what’s not, kid, trust me. You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Mr. Robot takes a long drag off his second cigarette. He was going to give up and go inside, soon. And that would be the end of – this – whatever it was. Teetering on the edge of Something.

“And crack, too,” Mr. Robot adds, just to piss Tyrell off. “If you were desperate.”

Tyrell splutters. “No – no crack.” He drops his cigarette butt, and they watch it fizzle out in the snow. “But a bump of cocaine… it’s considered polite, in some circumstances.”

Mr. Robot barks out a laugh. “Cut the shit, Tyrell! You’re an addict, just like everybody else.”

Tyrell straightens his tie, though it was wrinkled, like civilization had reminded him of his social status.

_Too good for us…_

But he has to try.

He has to try, for Elliot.

For himself.

He has to, has to.

“You gonna buy me that coffee, now?”

“Now that you’ve made me feel foolish?”

“Yeah. Exactly. Chop chop.”


	3. Chapter 3

The coffee is disgusting. Truly putrid, with grounds floating in the thin liquid, and all the cream in the world can’t cover up the taste of coffee that’s been left to sit.

But it is warm, sort of. They both drink it in great glugging gulpfuls, trying to get rid of that permeating chill. Mr. Robot wipes his mouth, and grins his strange, sharp smile at Tyrell. The cashier, on the other hand, looks pissed.

“Did you gentlemen need that ride, after all?” she asks, but her tone is sharp by now. Glowering under the Christmas lights – there was no holiday cheer from this woman. “ _Mr. Wellick,_ isn’t it?”

She’s figured out his identity, at last, and it could honestly destroy them. America was split down the middle on the subject of Tyrell Wellick, and there was no way to know how this one felt.

But Tyrell turns, grinning over his shoulder, and gives Mr. Robot a show. Robot’s eyebrows gently raise to scuff the brim of his hat, as he watches Tyrell charm the shit out of this angry, middle-aged soccer mom.

“I do apologize about our former conduct,” Tyrell says, and his voice is smooth. He’s smiling, and though it’s play-acting, to Robot’s eyes… He _is_ a good actor. The babyface he’s still rocking certainly doesn’t hurt, either, or the sweep of his boyishly blonde hair. The woman promptly turns to putty in his confident hands.

“But if you had any way to get us back to the city, I would not only be appreciative, but I would compensate you for your time. Twice over.”

The woman _giggles._ “Oh! No, no money, that’s not necessary. We get good business when it’s not the middle of the night.”

“I believe it!” Tyrell says, jovially, and with way too much enthusiasm. The woman grins so hard, Robot swears she might break her face. “Now, you said the phone lines were down…”

“They’re back,” she says, proudly, like she’d procured this miracle herself. “There’s a payphone in the back there – right near the bathrooms. You’ll get through better than your cellphone.”

“I appreciate your help,” Tyrell says, sincerely sounding, his tone bordering on flirty. He reads her nametag. “Natalie.”

Natalie titters behind her hand. “Just being a good Samaritan, is all. It’s what Jesus would want.”

Mr. Robot holds back his mandatory groan, but Natalie must sense something, with the daggers she shoots him. He pretends not to see her.

“Certainly,” Tyrell purrs, his gaze never leaving the woman. “Thank you again.”

“Give me the fucking phone,” Mr. Robot mutters, leaning against the walls by the bathroom. It reeked of piss, and, way underneath, a half-assed amount of bleach. The same as most gas station bathrooms did. “Who are you even gonna call? A cab?”

“Well, yes –“

“Give me the phone,” Mr. Robot repeats, and, without waiting for his answer, plucks the receiver from Tyrell’s hands. Their fingers brush, and Tyrell’s pretty pink mouth falls slightly open, but Robot ignores both occurrences. He snatches the phone away, punches in a series of numbers that are sent through on Tyrell’s shiny quarters. The line trills, then picks up.

“Hey. I’m stuck. Cash in a favor?”

There’s a woman’s voice on the other line of the phone, shrill and angry, and Tyrell can tell Robot must be getting laid into. But the smile on his face never wavers – he seems to be getting a kick out of whatever the person on the other end is telling him.

“Yeah, sweetheart. See you then.” He gently hangs up the phone.

“What was that?” Tyrell murmurs, scanning Robot’s calm face. His dark eyes glitter in the low, yellowish light.

“Our ride,” Mr. Robot replies. “Do you think they have Good ‘n Plenties in here?”

Tyrell blinks, feeling slightly whiplashed. “The candy?”

“Yeah. What, don’t you like licorice?” Mr. Robot hums, ambling off to browse the aisles.

If Tyrell was honest, he didn’t know what was expected of him, now. Does he follow like a puppy on Robot’s leash, or did he find his own way back? The word _“our”_ seemed to imply the ride was coming for them both, but Tyrell didn’t exactly understand what that meant – what is he supposed to do from here?

And he knows he shouldn’t have pushed Mr. Robot against the wall like he had. It wasn't professional, or the right move.

He's sorry, but.. he just wants - wanted, still wants, needs – something.

Anything, so long as it meant something. Something to hold on to, something to prove to himself that Elliot – or whoever it was – cared if he lived or died.

He needs that, and needs it badly, no matter how much he hated to admit it. He needs Elliot to care. He needs to know it had mattered, all this time. And he didn't know how to figure it out.

“No licorice,” Mr. Robot calls. “Right? So how about Swedish Fish?”

Tyrell can’t even see him, from his vantage point by the bathrooms, but he can hear the stupid grin in his voice.

“Swedish Fish for the Swedish…” Mr. Robot emerges from the end of the aisle, holding an assortment of candies. Tyrell had never pegged him as one with a sweet tooth – but he had never really gotten the chance, anyway. He didn't know the guy in that intimate sort of sense. He'd never known anyone like that, except maybe Joanna. 

“Swedish…” his dark, glittering eyes roam Tyrell up and down, in a way that’s hard to read as just friendly. Dissecting him, undressing him.

He grins, and Tyrell flushes – not just at the display, but at how it makes arousal heat up in his gut. His stomach sickeningly knots and un-knots itself, in his sudden nervousness.

“Boy.” Robot decides, after a long glance into Tyrell's young-looking face. He was older than Elliot - but not by much.

Robot dumps the candy into Tyrell’s hands and promptly leaves the store, leaving Tyrell to make his own decision about what just happened - and what to do next. The bell on the door jingles after him, and Tyrell catches sight of a happy sprig of mistletoe, hanging above the door there.

Twenty minutes ago, they had both been under it. 

Tyrell drops a reluctant few dollars in the tip jar, after he pays for Robot's shit. Bank of E card readers _weren't_ back up, it seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Joanna obviously makes all of Tyrell's decisions and once she dies he's very confused all the time, right? Am I the only one under that impression?


	4. Chapter 4

When Tyrell finally finds him, loitering and hunched over in the light behind the gas station like a large buzzard might, he’s whistling.

And that – _finally –_ hammers home the point that this is not Elliot, and has never been Elliot, for the whole night or longer. Tyrell had never heard Elliot so much as sing along with a song on his earbuds, let alone whistle and carry a tune himself.

His voice isn’t beautiful, but it’s clear and deep. He’s smoking through his whistles, sending pencil-thin lines into the night.

_“Charlie says, love my Good ‘n Plenty_

_Charlie says, really rings my bell_

_Charlie says, love my Good ‘n Plenty_

_Don’t know any other candy that I love so well.”_

And Tyrell stops, nearly drops the bag of candy – the tears already on his cheeks – because he _knows_ that stupid candy jingle, knows it from the old American commercials that used to play on their rabbit-ear TV. From – from forever ago, from before he could talk (in English or Swedish).

How could he have – ?

Mr. Robot turns, grin sharp as ever, and Tyrell feels his knees go to jelly. For a split second, before he came into the streetlight, Tyrell could have sworn his smiling teeth had caught the moonlight, reflecting supernaturally. He’s reminded, faintly, of Cheshire Cat.

_“We’re all mad here…”_

“Where’s my fucking M&Ms?” Elliot says, voice annoyed, but not loud. He’s far away, flickering in and out, and will probably go back under, but he snatches the bag away from Tyrell anyway. The least they could fucking do was feed him, in the meantime.

When he walks across the pavement, trailed by Tyrell, he kicks a tiny metal object, which skitters across the pavement. None of them notice.

“Did you not get them?”

“They’re there,” Robot murmurs, and Elliot unearths the brown box from the bottom of the bag.

Elliot’s fingers twitch, and he softens considerably. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says, to Elliot. “Sit,” he says, to Tyrell.

They sit, on frozen logs dragged up to the warmth by bums, probably. Their asses get wet, but it was better than rooming with Jesus-Would-Want-It Natalie.

Robot eats two candies at a time – in fact, he dumps them into one box to save time. And though the mixture of black licorice and milk chocolate is strange as shit, it somehow appeases them both.

“Do you really, seriously, not like candy?” Mr. Robot says, watching Tyrell not touch the bag. His voice is dry, bored. He’s begun yet another cigarette, and Tyrell thinks, distantly, of cancer.

“You’ve _got_ to be fucking with me.” Robot punctuates his sentence with an elegant ring of smoke.

“No, I do – I just –“ He just hadn’t had it in so long. It was weird, and he knew it was, but his life didn’t include stopping at the gas station and grabbing something shiny and full of chemicals – he has someone to fill up his car. Someone to cook him food that didn’t include Red Dye Number 40.

Tyrell pinkens, faintly. He gestures to nothing, losing his already thin patience. “What do I do, here?”

Mr. Robot blinks, baffled, and honestly blindsided by the question. His response is automatic. “Whatever you want, dollface.”

And – what, of course, Robot had completely expected to happen – the gears click in Tyrell’s pretty blonde head, and he gets it. He understands what this is, and he lunges, pounces, pins Robot’s hands to the damp log beneath them and presses their lips together.

It’s way gentler than it has any right to be, and Mr. Robot feels vaguely stupid for tensing.

(Not a fighter, not a fighter. Maybe a murderer, but not a fighter. Thank fucking God.)

“Wait,” he says, regrettably. His breathing is way too heavy for a single kiss, and he can’t seem to sit comfortably. “I need to have a sidebar.”

Tyrell’s breath is warm on his face, where the night air still cooled his cheeks. It was going to be sunrise, soon, and Tyrell really was a piece of eyecandy – at least in this light. He’s panting like a fucking animal, like a freshly weaned puppy, but his eyes are disgustingly human. Blue, endless blue, and just the tiniest bit terrified,though lust is written in every inch of his skin.

He does not look away when Robot pulls his hair, wrenches their faces so they’re no longer a breath’s length away. He whines.

“Oh –“ And then Tyrell looks ready to cry. Mr. Robot pets his cheek, and can’t even stop himself from doing it, and enjoying it when Tyrell leans in, accepts the touch.

Eagerly, he does this, and Robot is sickeningly reminded of how long ago it was that Joanna was killed. He knows no murderer was ever found, but that was _all_ he knew – had there even been a funeral? Had he ever found his son? 

_Poor fucking bastard… Just as crazy, needy, human. As us. Any of us._

“Just – a second. One second. It’s not over,” he purrs, and Tyrell lets him go. Sniffling, but willing.

“Don’t leave me,” he weeps, and Robot doesn’t bother telling him to get it together. He’d fix it in two seconds.

“Go ahead,” Elliot says, as if it meant nothing. As if it was _fine._

He gives Robot a strange look, running a hand through his hair. He still looks incredibly tired. "You were always going to."

He really, really, really, really doesn’t need to be told twice.


	5. Chapter 5

“If we’re doing this,” Mr. Robot says, and his voice is steadier than it had been in hours. “I want all your crazy. Got it? If you get to know about us – me, and Elliot, and everyone else – I want all your bullshit. I’m going to armchair diagnosis you after I let you fuck me, understood?”

Tyrell, who had half a hand in the candy bag, looks up, guiltily, like a caught child. His cheeks pinken, and he drops whatever he had found. He straightens, fixes his tie, and considers this.

And from everything he could have taken out of that statement, his first thought is, “Everyone _else?_ ”

Mr. Robot sighs, feeling surrounded by stupid kids, constantly. He removes his hat, rakes through his hair in a very Elliot-esque display.

“God. God and Jesus,” he mutters, to himself. He doesn’t know what They can do for him in this situation, anyway.

“Come here,” he says, his decision made. And he is not at all surprised when Tyrell heels, immediate and ready, like the eager-to-please puppy that he is.

“Is Elliot – ?” Tyrell asks, cautiously, and his warm breath billows across Robot’s neck. And his big blue eyes are, what, hopeful? Robot can’t decipher the expression that sweeps across Tyrell’s face – but he knows that he fucking wants to keep it there.

“He’s in there,” Mr. Robot murmurs, and their faces are inches apart by now. He leaves it at that. Subtext, y’know?

Though he’s strangely touched that Tyrell bothered to ask – and to acknowledge it wasn’t just _him_ he had to have the okay from.

And Tyrell, for his part, is immediately on board with whatever this is, whatever it was going to be. He trusted Elliot – he was still loyal, still. He wasn’t ashamed, either. Elliot was a cause that had never stopped being worth more than his life.

Something, anything, something, anything.

“Oh,” he says, and he slurs, like he’s drunk – intoxicated by proximity. He reaches back into the bag, though his eyes don’t ever leave Robot’s. “I think this is yours.”

And he procures a key, brass and classical, scratched from skittering across the lot. He presses it into Robot’s warm palm, and his breathing’s quick, expectant. He wants to be told he’s done well.

Mr. Robot thinks, _me and Elliot, we have a thing for the needy ones._

And Elliot stirs at the mention of his name, deep, deep in their brain. He’s laughing.

“Thank you,” Mr. Robot mutters, and he can’t believe this bastard has pulled the manners out of him. “It’s Elliot’s. He’ll appreciate it.”

“What does it go to?” Tyrell murmurs, watching Robot slip it into his jeans pocket, where it mingles with two lighters and a broken pencil.

“Not my story to tell,” Mr. Robot says, and he sighs. He leans in, closer, to the point he’s about draped across Tyrell’s lap. His eyes flash in the pre-dawn.

Tyrell realizes – He realizes several things in a rapid succession.

Number one, they were both batshit, completely _störd,_ three sheets to the wind all the way around.

.. or the three of them were, as the case may have been.

Number two… he didn’t give a shit.

It had been a rough fucking year; he can admit that. It did not go the way it was supposed to go. And now, not only was he chained to the top of Evil Corp, with all below jeering for his resignation – and, in bigger numbers than he wants to dwell on, his suicide.

That was fine – work meant nothing, anymore, without someone to bring it home to.

But Joanna, who had given him real purpose – because, even before Elliot, he had been the devoted type – was dead. His son was gone, missing, foster cared, who really even fucking knew anymore –

But Elliot. Or the other Elliot. Or them both, it didn’t matter – they were still here. With him, behind a gas station, at four o’clock in the morning. Freezing. Nearly dying. Still here, still here.

_That has made all the difference…_

Robot’s eyes flash, dangerous and inviting, and Tyrell decides, _I surrender._

To what, he didn’t know. But he gives in, and the mask he wears falls away – finally, he can breathe again. Mr. Robot crushes it hard under his heel, and it’s old enough to turn to dust under pressure.

“That’s better,” he mutters, like this had been his plan all along. There’s a softened edge to the smile he offers, and Tyrell does a bit of a double take.

Then, Tyrell does the very worst thing he could have done – he freezes. He clams up, paralyzed by Robot’s gaze, and he thinks, _Fuck, I would never need the ropes with him._

But it’s not like that. Not tonight. Not behind a gas station at such an early hour.

But he does – and Tyrell must think the moment is over, because he hesitates, pauses at the last second. But Robot does, however, place his hand dangerously far up Tyrell’s thigh, grinning. Grinning like he’s a shitty comedian about to tell a tiresome joke, cheesing at Tyrell.

“Every time you thought of him, you thought of me,” Mr. Robot breathes hotly, directly into the soft shell of Tyrell’s ear.

“Do you understand that? Do you know how frustrating it was, having watch from the inside – because Elliot’s got issues, Tyrell, worse than you probably know. You do, too, but you’re not my ward. He comes first, and I couldn’t have dropped everything just for you.”

Robot takes a breath, squeezes his eyes shut. He has to fucking say it, doesn’t he? “But I _wanted_ to.”

Tyrell’s mouth falls open, the very beginnings of tears pearling at the edges of his endless blue eyes, and Robot shuts him up before he can ruin it, unceremoniously kissing him, messily. The way he must hate, wet lips and fumbling hands, but Tyrell opens up for it like it was the greatest thing in his tiny little world.

And it’s –

Tyrell finds himself feeling like a nervous virgin, or someone who had never been with the same sex before – neither of which are the case. But Mr. Robot looks at him with the kind of unveiled intensity Tyrell ate up like a starving man. Something he’d been missing for so long, so far removed it felt like he’d never even had it in the first place.

Mr. Robot was purpose incarnate, the sun giving life to the earth, and Tyrell was Icarus building his wings. He would burn up, and he would do it happily.

And though Mr. Robot doesn’t know what he’s thinking about, he can nearly hear Tyrell’s silent monologuing. “Okay, back in the present now, babe.”

The nickname does the trick.

Tyrell tips his head towards Robot’s, willing, and it’s clear this is a song and dance Mr. Robot has done before. His experience is immediately obvious, even if it lacks tact, with the way he easily takes the lead, angling Tyrell where he wants him and taking what he pleases.

Tyrell, of course, turns to putty in his capable hands.

And he expects Robot to _just_ do what he wants, use Tyrell like a warm hole and leave him panting on the wet log – but he doesn’t. And that’s worse – way worse – because Tyrell gets the impression of just how crazy, how ridiculous, that this could be.

But _could be_ is what he’s more interested in.

“How long,” Mr. Robot whispers hoarsely, hotly, his mouth against Tyrell’s as he comes up for air. He has one knee pinned between Tyrell’s legs, trapping him there.

And Elliot’s body isn’t… the best. He was sick, often, especially as a kid, and he had never been able to keep up a healthy amount of fat. He just wasn’t made that way – but the drugs and the crazy didn’t help them any.

But Robot had been using it a long time. He doesn’t consider Elliot’s body to be his, by any means – but he’s been allowed to take it for a drive. He used to hotwire without permission, when things were not as well communicated – but that was then.

This is now.

“How – how long?” Tyrell stutters, repeating the sentence. He swallows, sucks on the inside of his bright pink cheeks. “I beg pardon?”

“How long…” and Mr. Robot drags it out as long as he possibly can, his teeth trailing the line of Tyrell’s jaw, his hands _(those hands could have blown my brains out. those hands are going to save the world)_ hover dangerously close to the outline of his cock, where it strains and cries against inside his expensive trousers.

“Have you waited?”

Tyrell blinks, his words hard to grasp, but the question is obviously meant to be answered. “I’ve waited my whole life, and I will wait a thousand more. If that’s what you choose.”

“You’re nuts,” Mr. Robot laughs, but he doesn’t pull away, so it must not be that bad. He pats Tyrell’s cheek, because he likes the way his eyes immediately flutter shut, fanning out his tan lashes. “You still love me?”

“I love you both,” Tyrell says, reverent, and there’s zero hesitation, or even light embarrassment. Mr. Robot balks – he’d been _totally_ fucking with him. “I never stopped.”

“Fuck, well,” Mr. Robot mutters. “At least you don’t keep me guessing.”

“Never, Elliot,” Tyrell replies, and Robot puts a pin in the fact that he has a name, too. Later, he resolves. It wasn’t like they didn’t have the time.

And something Tyrell learns very quickly – Mr. Robot wasn’t messing around. There’s little languid, school-yard snogging, but his movement is confident, unflinching, when his hand trails Tyrell’s leg, rests on the top of the zipper for a split second.

Robot decides he’s tired of the preamble. He’d never been particularly good at foreplay.

“You really are a looker,” he allows, just to make Tyrell whine, make him a little more desperate. Just so he didn’t get cocky, start thinking he was running the show, that was all. “So pretty, beautiful.”

Tyrell flails his hands, nearly losing balance on the log, but Robot catches him, somehow. Though Tyrell must have had at _least_ a hundred pounds on him, he catches him easily, a solid arm snaked around his middle.

“Careful,” he mutters, and Tyrell feels something bloom in his chest. Whether it would be beautiful or ugly remained to be seen, but it was there. Growing, changing. Taking root.

“God – you –“ Tyrell says, he shakes his head. He wouldn’t have found himself in a situation anywhere near this one, had he chosen to visit a different apartment that night. And it’s terrifying, but in the way he imagines skydiving to be – he could crash, but it’s an exhilarating way down.

“Me,” Robot confirms. He never thought he’d get to be this selfish, but Elliot had been gently pulled back under. They were alone, and he doesn’t know when that’ll happen again. He sticks his hand down Tyrell’s pants – if there was a more sophisticated way to do that, he had yet to learn it.

Tyrell bites on his cheek, wanting to do _something_ other than sit there like a dunce, but he can’t. He’s the led, here, that’s clear. Maybe there was a less on-the-nose comparison than _sheep and shepherd,_ but Tyrell doesn’t know it.

“I’m crazy, but you made me this way,” he tells Robot, panting. “Things were fine, and then –“

“Then you killed Sharon Knowles,” Robot says, easily. “We had no stake in that, babe.”

Tyrell groans, and it’s like the love child of a cry and a moan. He ruts into Robot’s loose fist, doing most of the work himself, but he’ll take what he can get. A hot blush has again covered his cheeks.

“Okay. Enough fucking around,” Mr. Robot says, and he gets Tyrell off in three hard strokes, inelegant in the way handjobs always tended to be.

“ _Fuck,"_ Tyrell keens, and repeats the sentiment in Swedish. " _Fan."_

And that’s how Darlene finds them – Tyrell, fucked out, his head against Robot’s shoulder, half-asleep. And Robot, smiling around another cigarette.

“Shit,” she says, her hands on her hips, as the dawn breaks behind her. “I guess you two deserve each other.”

They did.

“Let me –“ Tyrell mutters when he gets it together, after blowing his load in the snow.

Robot grabs his hand before he can reach for Elliot’s jeans. He was too old for this shit, too cold. “We’ll do this again near a bed, babe.”

And the car doesn’t belong to Darlene – because she, like Elliot, didn’t actually own one. Robot doesn’t mention it – she was putting herself out on a limb by trekking out here, anyway.

"Here," he says, and leans forward in the backseat, handing her a green box of Mike 'n Ikes. The face she makes as she accepts them - bemused, amused, confused - makes him think he's forgiven. Those had been her favorite, back in the day.

The gas station shrinks into the distance, and Robot rests his warm, dry hand on Tyrell’s knee. Just rests it there, no intention to do anything with it, but it was…

All Tyrell had ever wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all, folks. hope u enjoyed :)


	6. epilogue - "the joker"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cause i'm a picker, i'm a grinner  
> i'm a lover, and im a sinner
> 
> bonus level lmao

“Well, some people call me the space cowboy,” Mr. Robot says, perfectly casual, like that sentence made any sense at all. Tyrell drops the shirt he’s just finished folding. “Some call me the gangster of love.”

Tyrell’s eyes practically bug out of his skull, and the joke misses him by two – three, four, five… - miles. Goes right over his pretty little head. Robot can’t resist fucking with him for a few seconds longer – it’s so easy, and _so_ much fun.

“Some people call me Maurice,” he offers, like he’s reciting a Shakespearean masterwork. “Because I speak of the pompatus of love.”

And – and Tyrell looks really, really hard through the Catalogue of English Words in his head, the one he had been formulating since grade school, and he says, “That’s not a real word.”

A thoughtful pause. “Is it?”

“It’s a song, dipshit,” Mr. Robot says, and he’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe. “It’s slang – doesn’t mean anything.”

He’s laughing so hard, he can feel the tears prickle behind his eyes. He’s losing his shit – had Tyrell really never heard the Steve Miller Band song? How foreign _was_ Sweden, really, because there was no way an American would have let it go on that long…

Tyrell’s face pinkens – then reddens, in his angry embarrassment. He did not like being made a fool of.

He shouldn’t even be here – and he wasn’t going to stand to be the butt of the joke. He stands, swiftly and with purpose, and Robot clicks his tongue at him.

“Oh, sweetheart, calm down,” Mr. Robot says, and removes a pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket. Tyrell notes, in the back of his mind, that it’s a different brand than the one Elliot carries.

Curiouser and curiouser…

“Down,” Robot says, and automatically, Tyrell sits back down.

He shouldn’t even be here, and now he was taking orders like a dog. _Nice one, Wellick. Real smooth fucking moves._

But he knows, if he does calm down, this night will most likely end up in Elliot’s loathsome frameless bed, with his sheets that always needed washing, smelling of sweat and metal. So he finds it inside himself – because it is there, and somewhere easier to find, in Elliot’s presence – the strength to kick at the rage that boils inside of him, make it simmer down.

“But do you have one?” he presses, again, as he folds two socks down the middle – conjoining them. This had been his least favorite chore as a kid, and he hadn’t done it himself in at least ten years. But he came running when Robot called, and this is what he had happened to be doing when Tyrell waltzed in.

He was folding Elliot’s underwear, and didn’t really seem to care that he had company.

“Make yourself useful,” he had said, in a way that was more asking, than telling. And Tyrell had.

“A ‘ _real’_ name?” Robot says, scoffing over the word _real._ “I don’t believe in them. Do you think Biggie Smalls had that name on his birth certificate? Or Ringo Starr? Or, fucking – I don’t know any Swedish celebrities because I have a life, but you get the gist.”

Tyrell hums, letting the insult roll off his back, and it occurs to him how little laundry there is. He had known Elliot didn’t live luxuriously, but this seems insane, for what he must have made in cybersecurity. Tyrell hates that his mind still wanders to money, to how Elliot is doing, if Tyrell can help at all –

“I only like you to call me my name, so you know there’s a difference,” Mr. Robot says, mildly. He’s already finished one cigarette and begins another. Tyrell longs to open a window – he really wasn’t a heavy smoker – but he feels as though the smoke is part of the game. He sits.

“You know?” Robot says, and he leans in close enough that Tyrell can feel his breath inside his ear. He shudders.

“Because it’s _me_ who really loves your peaches, and wants to shake your tree,” he whispers, in breathy, faux-seductive voice, and collapses into laugher when Tyrell _still_ turns an unflattering shade of red.

One day, he’d get the Swede to lighten up. One day.

**Author's Note:**

> cred where its due to The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. sorry i made ur poem gay, bobby


End file.
